


Pensive

by AnotherAnon0



Series: Toxic [6]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Abuse, In my head its almost Nik-hail but it isn't. I want it to be., Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masochism Reference/Implied, Sadism Reference/Implied, This is very almooooost Nikolai/Mikhail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Nicholai shares a small moment with Mikhail after his night with Sergei leaves him restless.~His eyes were burning. They were red and dry. Nicholai brought a few fingers up to rub the dark circle beneath one of them, tracing the deep lines of sleeplessness. The crust of long-dried tears and saliva flaked off easily.It was easy to explain the tears during the act. Far harder to explain the ones that came after.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Sergei Vladimir
Series: Toxic [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718308
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	Pensive

The dusty mirror provided an inadequately small surface to assess the damage. 

Craning his neck to the side, Nicholai could see deep bite marks, angry red and peppering purple across the pale skin of his shadow-cast jaw.

Dipping his eyes downwards, he took in the scratches he was able to see. Clawing, grating, winding trails of red paint on white canvas that painted a portrait of grabbing, possessing, demanding. In the mess of abusive linework, there were even a few small half-moons where the flesh had been penetrated fully and given way to the fingers that had been clutching him so tightly, pulling him closer, deeper, harder.

And then there was his throat. He cleared it, testing a sound. The grunt emitted was meek, high-pitched, quiet, pathetic. 

Hours of screaming, crying and begging had snatched his voice like an inconsiderate thief.

He couldn't remember what desperate plea had stolen it. For it to stop? To keep going? To never end? To be over already? 

_Yes._

All of them. And more.

His eyes were burning. They were red and dry. Nicholai brought a few fingers up to rub the dark circle beneath one of them, tracing the deep lines of sleeplessness. The crust of long-dried tears and saliva flaked off easily.

It was easy to explain the tears during the act. Far harder to explain the ones that came after.

He remembered looking up to see Sergei, sprawled out naked on the chaise lounge, casually sipping a crystal highball. The spittling, gasping, blubbering tears he'd made no effort to contain -- or couldn't. Sergei had laughed jovially when he'd reflexively curled his arm over his head, pathetically sniffling into the crook of his elbow. 

_"No time to feel sorry for yourself, Kolya. Get up off the floor now."_

Nicholai stepped out of the small, industrial bathroom into the small, industrial bunker he had called home since arriving at the Caucasus. Crawling into the bed with a groan and a sniffle, he unceremoniously flopped onto his back, sighing in pain when the sea of bruises there came into contact with the hard mattress. 

He wanted a cigarette. Desperately. But at that moment, the effort of moving to dig around in his coat was too great to stomach. It was too far. In that chair in the corner that was miles and miles away. His wrists, coated in purple and green from where Sergei had maintained a vice-like grip on them for far too long, were demanding he lop them off and toss them in the garbage. ' _Stay still,_ ' they begged him.

Sergei was a strong man. But Nicholai couldn't shake the feeling that the Colonel had somehow gotten significantly stronger. Lying beneath him, Nicholai hadn't been able to gain a single inch of leeway, even before his body had given its strength up to the shockwaves of pleasure and pain. Part of him tried to attribute it to his own physical deterioration after the collapse of the military, but he couldn't believe he was _that_ far gone.

No, something _was_ different about Sergei. And Nicholai couldn't help but think it had something to do with the harsh marks on the inside of his elbows from what was obviously repeated, deep needle pricks. 

_What is Umbrella doing to you?_

He wanted to fall into a sleep. Desperately. But he couldn't.

Cigarettes. Nicotine. 

Swinging his legs off the bed was a chore, one that caused every part of his body to scream in agony. Electrical currents shot up his thighs, through his groin, into his belly and back. Hissing in pain, he slowly planted his feet on the floor and rose, grabbing the thick, wool overcoat he'd tossed on the small chair in the corner of the room and wrapping his naked body in it haphazardly. 

Checking his pocket for the cigarettes while he stuffed his feet in unlaced boots, he slipped out the door. The early morning greeted him with a howling wind and an angry, blowing snow.

The sky was grey and empty, blurring the line between refinery tanks and horizon. Fat, white flakes immediately began to accumulate on his shoulders and head.

Pulling the pack of _prima_ from his pocket, he plucked one of the long, white tubes out. A match was quickly procured, but he knew it was going to be a task lighting it in the hellish gust that beat down on him, soothing his aching body with a cooling numbness.

A failed strike. Sparks fell to the metallic mesh catwalk. He squatted to try and get some protection from the railing. Another failed strike.

Nicholai's ear tickled. Through the wind, there was a distinct, distant tin that seemed to be gravitating closer. Methodic footsteps on the metal of the catwalk. Squinting against the wind, Nicholai lifted his head to the direction of the sound, holding himself steady until a figure emerged from the snowy industrial maze.

_Of course it's you._

"Ah... Sergeant Zinoviev!" Mikhail ushered himself closer quickly, smiling gingerly.

"What are you... doing here?"

"I can not sleep. So I walk." He said, folding his hands across his belly, "You are also having trouble?"

Nicholai's response was a shrug, followed by a tentative offer of cigarettes as he held up the pack.

"No, no. I quit in prison." The Captain said with a chuckle, "The one good thing to come out of it!" 

Mikhail crouched down beside the younger man, looking him over cautiously, but intently. The bruises along his jawline weren't missed, nor were the few bite-marks high enough to be just barely visible, poking out from the popped collar of the heavy coat. Silently, Mikhail wondered if Nicholai had gone grey, or if he had always had such light hair. It looked natural. 

Nicholai was making new attempts at striking the match, frantic ones, fully aware of the assessing eyes combing over him.

They made him anxious. Afraid. Furious.

"I am not a fucking faggot." Nicholai spat suddenly, filter of the cigarette gripped tightly between his teeth to keep it from shooting out of his mouth onto the metal catwalk. 

"I never said such a thing." 

Nicholai struck the match against the back of the cigarette pack again, finally achieving success. Quickly covering the rapidly dwindling flame behind a careful palm, he brought it to the end of his cigarette, internally sighing with relief when a comforting smog of smoke entered his mouth.

"You were thinking it." He muttered, tossing the spent match over the edge, watching it flutter through the snowy wind until it disappeared into the vulgar nothingness. 

"You don't know what I think." Mikhail said flatly, "Stop believing you do."

_But I'm thinking it._

The older man sighed, turning away to cast his gaze over the refinery. The endless pipes wove a utilitarian map as far as the eye could see, masking the sinister intentions within. Spotlights flickered. Nicholai shuddered. 

Silence. 

The wind sliced between them, snow pattering against the aluminium bunker exterior they were squatting against.

"I should go." Mikhail's words breathily fought against the howl, "And you should sleep."

The Captain grunted as he stood, dusting the snow off of his heavy green utility jacket with a few loud slaps. Nicholai twisted the cigarette between his fingers, mulling over his words silently before looking up at the older man with a pensive look. Brow set, jaw clenched, red-flushed lips twitching slightly from the cold.

"Then tell me."

Mikhail's smile was too kind. Too authentic. And those _fucking_ eyes... Nicholai wanted to pluck them out and hurl them into the tundra. Somehow he thought that wouldn't stop them from twinkling with an inappropriately positive resonance -- perhaps they'd explode in the distance like atom bombs.

"I think..." He started, licking his lips, "You are a very capable, intelligent soldier consumed by his own bitterness and hatred." He nodded, confidently continuing, "And I think the _polkovnik_ is a very hateful, bitter soldier consumed by his own intelligence and capability." 

Mikhail's words were full of humour, amusement, and sincerity. The warmth in his face told Nicholai there was no cruelty in what he said, no judgement or maliciousness. A totally foreign experience.

"It is a very toxic concoction."

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny, tiny. 
> 
> Just because Fanficreader01 and I were talking about there needing to be more Mikhail in the world. And Mikhail is a good guy.


End file.
